


The sound of music AU

by Rahn (Rahndom)



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2014-03-18
Packaged: 2018-01-16 04:27:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1331881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rahndom/pseuds/Rahn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim Drake is pitch-perfect.</p><p>His family takes advantage.</p><p>Damian considers his "superpower" is unfair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I had this discussion with a friend regarding Dick as a Maria Von Trapp wannabe trying to get his siblings to sing with him. Which then turned to a discussion whether he might have any musical talent at all (Neil Patrick Harris voice acting aside, we all know Dickie Bird is a little too over enthusiastic) and then we went discussing whether Tim might have any talent at all and decided that if he can sound like a woman (Caroline Hill) he must have a good ear. This is the result.

“Grayson, this is a disgrace!” Damian snarled as he was bodily dragged towards the backyard by his older brother, Jason and Tim reluctantly following behind.

 

Dick was grinning, eyes wide as he plopped on the picnic blanket placed by an enormous tree, a feast already placed by Alfred waiting for them.

 

“It’s my birthday and you all promised to do what I wanted today,” he reminded his younger siblings. “And this is what I want.”

 

Jason scoffed, dropping by Dick’s side and Tim merely rolled his eyes before resting on the blanket himself.

 

“Okay, Dickie Bird,” Jason yawned. “We’re here, what does your creepy little mind want?”

 

“I want us to sing a song!” Dick replied cheerfully, producing a guitar from behind his back much to Damian’s and Jason’s outrage.

 

“You’ve been watching the sound of music, haven’t you?” Tim asked, raising an eyebrow. Dick nodded happily.

 

“Come on, guys! It’ll be fun!” the older man encouraged. “Plus we can show Bruce when we are done, he’s gonna love it.”

 

“No way!” Jason growled.

 

“I will not allow you to do this ridicule, Grayson,” hissed Damian.

 

Tim shrugged.

 

“We did promise, and I’d rather endure this than whatever else you’ve thought as an alternative,” Tim sighed, running a hand through his hair.  
  


Damian and Jason glared at him.

 

“Brown-noser,” Jason scowled. “No Dick, pick something else.”

 

“Well,” Dick hummed, his fingers gently tweaking the strings. “If not we could all dress up and go skating, I know just the place.”

 

“That does sound more reasonable, Grayson,” Damian commented.

 

“Define dress up,” Tim asked, eyebrow raised once more.

 

“I saw some hoodies on the internet!” Dick grinned. “Damian’s has kitty ears ‘cause he’s like a cat, Timmy’s has bunny ears and Jay’s a tiger! I even bought the matching jeans with fluffy tails and all.”

 

Damian and Jason stared at eachother, then turned to Tim who just gave them an ‘I told you so’ look before shrugging.

 

“Start playing, Grayson,” Damian growled.

  
Dick’s grin grew positively vicious as he started running his fingers over his guitar’s strings, humming to himself.

“Doe…” he sang, frowning when Damian’s eyes came down in a wince and Jason burst into unrestrained laughter. Tim…

Tim sighed.

“Third string, Dick,” he commented, shaking his head.

“Thanks, Timmy,” Dick laughed, fiddling with the instrument once more. “There?”

“Umm, yeah,” Tim agreed, sighing. “And you are trying to sing Do in Fa, so, go lower on the imaginary keyboard.”

“Right.”

Jason and Damian both blinked in confusion, turning to stare at the third Robin before frowning at the first.

“If you are doing this little pantomime of yours to humiliate us, Grayson, it is not funny,” Damian growled, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I’m sorry?” Dick asked, eyes wide. “What pantomime?”

“The one where baby bird can tell you are doing a lousy job by ear alone?” Jason snapped, his cheeks flushing.

“What?” Tim asked, his own cheeks flushing when Dick’s smile became impossibly smug.

“No pantomime,” he laughed. “But Tim is a perfect pitch, so he usually is the one to tune the instruments around the house.”

“The term is Absolute Pitch, Dick,” Tim sighed, covering his face with his hands. “And we were supposed to sing your song so I can just go away?”

“Oh, no,” Jason grinned. “YOU a Perfect Pitch? I call bullshit.”

“As much as it pains me, I do agree with Todd,” Damian said firmly. “Drake usually sounds like a broken robot. For you to imply that him of all people is a gifted musician is ridiculous, Grayson.”

“I don’t sound like a robot!” Tim protested, uncomfortable with all the attention he was getting. He had simply agreed to Dick’s request because a) he was going to sing something that only lasted a minute and a half and, b) he definitely didn’t want to wear the stupid hoodie, but this? No, he hadn’t signed for this. “And I’m not a gifted musician, I just remember notes better than most.”

“I’m not lying!” Dick frowned. “I’ve seen Tim screech the dial tones of a phone and make a call! It’s the coolest thing ever!”

“Bull…shit…” Jason mocked. “Dickie Bird, we can tell you have a soft spot for Timmers here but, come on!”

Dick’s frown turned into a right pout, and Tim wasn’t sure whether it was because Jason and Damian were bad mouthing him or because he was being called a liar, which was a sure way to get into Dick’s bad side really fast. Slowly, trying not to gather attention to himself, he started inching backwards, wondering how many seconds it would take for his trained siblings to realize he was going to run away before…

Dick’s eyes lit up.

…fuck, too late.

“Timmy!” he grinned. “I changed my mind! I want YOU to sing for us!”

“Aawwww, Dick!” Tim whined, his hands once more covering his face. “Weren’t we supposed to sing together?”

“Yeah, but I want to prove to the non-believers your talent!”

“Non-believers?” Damian snapped, hands clenching. Jason simply raised an eyebrow.

“I need to get you away from the internet, Dick,” Tim growled.

“Twenty bucks says it’s total bull,” Jason challenged, eyes determined.

“Twenty bucks and a visit for Alfred and Bruce one weekend every month,” Dick said quickly, spitting on his hand and holding it out for Jason to shake.

“If he fails you are parading in a dress on Alfred’s birthday, Dickie bird, and we are burning those stupid hoodies you bought,” Jason agreed, spitting into his own hand and shaking Dick’s with it.

“You better suck, Drake,” Damian threatened, scooting over to Jason’s side at the same time as Dick plopped next to Tim’s, his hands holding the guitar to him eagerly.

“Please, Timmy, I swear I won’t ever force you to do this again!” Dick implored, his eyes wide and starry, his lower lip jutting out pleadingly.

Tim sighed.

“You are lucky this is your birthday party, you bastard,” he growled, “You know what song you want?” he asked. Dick nodded enthusiastically.

“Of course I do!” he said happily. “I want the one you sung to Alfred on his last birthday.”

Tim flushed.

“He promised he wouldn’t tell a soul!” he protested, the color spreading beyond his face and down his neck.

“He didn’t,” Dick assured. “Bruce did.”

“One of these days I’m going to kill him,” the younger teen sighed, snatching the instrument out of Dick’s grasp and plucking at the strings for a moment. Once he was done he handed the guitar back to his older brother, clearing his throat a little. “Okay, let’s get this over with.”

Dick started playing immediately, enjoying the way Jason’s mocking smirk and Damian’s disbelieving frown started disappearing the moment Tim opened his mouth, the accented English flowing from his lips easily and rapidly switched to Gaelic before turning back to English.

“Siuil, siuil, siuil a run,” Tim repeated from memory, his hands clenched over his lap.  “Is go dte tu mo mhuirnin slan.”

Soft clapping made the four boys turn and Tim hide his face on the ground when they found Bruce standing behind them, smiling proudly at the teen.

“And here I thought you swore not to do it again,” the older man says, grinning his particularly amused smile.

“I was arm-wrestled into this,” Tim growls, cheeks completely red. “Anything else, Dick?”

The other man shakes his head, his smile wide and bright like a supernova as he wraps his arms around Tim’s neck and kisses his cheek soundly.

“It was beautiful, Tim,” he says proudly, releasing the teen and watching him disappear inside the Manor once more. “He’s the best.”

“Which places you in the awkward position of topping that on his birthday, Dick,” Bruce comments as he takes a seat on the spot his third son has just vacated.

Dick just grins.

“I have it all planned in my head, Bruce,” he says enthusiastically.

Off to a side, Jason is staring at the Manor’s doors, his cheeks slightly coloring. Damian, on the other hand is shifting uncomfortably in place.

“Did you know Drake could do that, Father?” he asks. Bruce nods.

“I realized the moment he started mimicking voices while undercover,” the man shrugs. “An unusual talent, I must say.”

Damian nods, his cheeks red.

“Jay?” Dick asks, his delighted smile widening.

“Wow,” the other teen says. “Just wow. Think you can get him to do that for my birthday, Dickie Bird?”

“There’s no harm in asking,” Dick shrugs. “Though Kori would jump him.”

“Not while I’m present,” Jason growls, imagining their over-enthusiastic friend pushing her… assets into Tim’s personal space.  “A private performance then.”

Dick grins at Bruce, nudging him with his elbow.

“And people say I can’t pull The Sound of Music, huh?”

“You are one disturbing Maria Von Trapp,” Bruce agrees. 


	2. La Vie en Rose

When Batman and Robin arrived at the cave, and found the expanse of their lair darkened and cold, a sudden chill of dread settled into their stomachs with the intensity none of them were accustomed yet.

Damian removed his mask, looking around and pretended not to search for the steaming cup of hot milk that usually greeted him on the console while Bruce instantly reached for the computer, typing into the security feeds from the Manor and looking for any anomaly, any disruption that could mark the inevitable.

The Manor had to have been attacked while they were away in Metropolis.

There could be no other explanation as to Alfred’s sudden absence.

“Father?” Damian asked, confused.

“I don’t know, Damian,” Bruce growled, eyes narrowed, cheeks flushed with concern.

The boy stared at his father, arms coming around himself for comfort before his eyes strayed to a brightly colored piece of paper sticking on the back of Batman’s usual chair.

“Father,” he said, taking it between his fingers and frowning. “We weren’t attacked.”

Bruce turned to him, eyes wide, as he was handed the small, blue post-it note with three doodled… chicken? And the familiar half-assed scrawling that his former protégé used to try to pass off as his penmanship.

_‘Big B and Lil’ D,_

_Alfred caught a cold so we took over the house for a while, hope you don’t mind!_

_Don’t worry, everything’s fine! Jay banned me from the kitchen and Timmy is playing man of the house in the meantime. I’m… the face to the press?_

_Ring us over when you guys are back!_

_XOXOXOXOXO_

_Dick, Jay and Tim. ‘_

With a soft sigh, Bruce realized that the ‘ _chicken’_  in the note were actually… really deformed and fat robins, and that the first one was beaming, the second one was scowling and the third one was… covering itself with its wings?

Dick, Jason and Tim.

He shook his head.

“Alfred is sick,” he told his youngest, watching as the boy’s face lost a little of its color, before he placed a gentle hand on his small shoulder. “Dick, Jason and Tim are taking care of things upstairs, let’s wash up and make sure they don’t burn the Manor down?”

Damian’s eyes widened, his lips curling in distaste.

“I don’t think they are capable of getting along,” he huffed, removing his costume as he walked towards the showers. “It is better if we hurry.”

Bruce followed his son to the showers, a small, nervous smile on his face.  Damian was scared for Alfred’s health, that much was obvious. He was worried as well, of course, and most likely it was the reason his three estranged sons had come uninvited and on their own will into the Manor.

None of them liked to think that Alfred could be gone, but whenever – and it was a rare occasion – that Alfred fell ill, it was a reminder that the man was old and wouldn’t last for as long as they all wished.

No man could live forever, after all.

Once again clean and bandaged, dressed in his customary jeans and hoodie, Damian rushed into the Manor proper, his eyes wide when he found dinner waiting for him and his father in the dining room. Mashed potatoes and vegetable stir fry – nothing up to Alfred’s standards – steaming gently into the night air. Dick was placing two cups of water by the dishes and folding napkins under the cutlery, a fond smile on his face.

“Oh,” he said as he noticed Damian and then Bruce. “You guys are back earlier than we thought! Damn, I owe Tim twenty bucks!”

“How’s Alfred?” Bruce asked, frowning.

“His fever is down and he will recover in a while,” Dick said. “Or so nurse Tim said. He’s in his room with him right now. Jay went to bed about two minutes ago, after he finished dinner and I’m very good, thanks for asking.”

Damian huffed, crossing his arms over his chest.

“It was just a cold?” he asked, tilting his head.

“For a man Alfred’s age, it was,” Dick replied, ruffling his hair. “Babs called me, and I called Timmy and Jay. We’ve been taking care of the house ever since, you know, give the old guy a few days to rest.”

Bruce sighed in relief, placing a hand on Dick’s shoulder.

“Thank you, Dick,” he said softly feeling his whole body relax.

“Don’t mention it, Bruce,” Dick laughed. “He’s our grandfather; of course we would worry about him. Now eat up! Jay spent an hour cooking for you and he didn’t want you to know he did it!”

“Jason cooked?” Bruce asked, an eyebrow rising.

“Well, Timmy is been monitoring Alfred all night and I am not allowed near the stove, remember?” Dick shrugged.

The sudden beeping of his cellphone interrupted Bruce’s mostly masked delight and Damian’s shock.

“Um, B,” Dick said after reading the text he had just received. “Jay is not in bed and is wondering whether he can open the violin cabinets, he says Tim promises to put them back where they found them.”

Bruce blinked.

“Tell them I said the keys are in my drawer.”

“Will do!”

Bruce sat down, prompting his son to do the same and dug into his meal, sighing when the salt less taste hit his tongue. Jason had always been a fan of soy sauce instead of salt when he was a child and, apparently, kept this preference into adulthood. He turned, staring as Damian shoveled the food into his mouth, swallowing without tasting and drowning whatever else he couldn’t chew with water.

 “I don’t trust Drake and Todd of all people around the house,” Damian snarled, his cheeks coloring. “Hurry up, father, who knows what those two could be doing to Pennyworth right now.”

“Lil’ D, you are going to choke!” Dick said in dismay, but shared a fond look over Damian’s shoulder with Bruce. Obviously, despite their reassurances, Damian wanted to be done and climb up the stairs to Alfred’s room.

Bruce ate as fast as he could, trying to control his smiling – he did that a lot when his children were involved in some adorable scheme, no matter their age – and stood to follow his youngest child towards their grandfather’s room.

Jason met them at the door, eyes narrowed as he warned them that no, Alfred was fine and he and Tim were trying to get him to sleep.

Well, Tim mostly.

Damian was about to snarl at the older man that Drake wouldn’t know how to take a rest himself, much less help an ailing person to sleep when the soft notes of a violin rose into the air from the doorway and a soft, smoky voice called out all their attention.

“Quand il me prend dans ses bras, il me parle tout bas, je vois la vie en rose,” the voice sang, startling Damian and making Bruce smile. “Il me dit des mots d’amour, des mots de tous les jours, et ca me fait quelque chose.”

Jason grinned, crossing his arms over his chest.

“See?” he whispered, afraid to interrupt the music.

“Father?” Damian asked uncertain, his small hands fidgeting with his hoodie.

“It’s one of Alfred’s favorite songs,” Bruce explained, peering into the room where Tim was playing the violin and singing, his soft French perfect in pitch and pronunciation. Alfred’s aged hand tapped the rhythm with his fingers against the covers, eyes fond and lost in memories of times past, most likely.

“Et des que je l’apercois, alors je sens en moi, mon coeur qui bat,” Tim whispered, his playing becoming softer and softer as the song ended and Alfred closes his eyes, a contented sigh leaving his wrinkled lips.

“That was beautiful, Master Tim,” he said, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. “Thank you.”

“Whenever you want to, Alfred,” Tim said gently, kissing his forehead and covering his up to his neck. “Good night.”

Tim left the room and blinked in confusion when he found his family staring back at him from Alfred’s door, Bruce’s wide pleased smile, Damian’s flushing cheeks and Jason’s cocky grin enough indication that he had an audience again.

“Not a word,” he said with a huff, handing the violin back to Jason. “As usual it was for Alfred.”

“I wouldn’t dare to comment,” Jason laughed, walking away to put the violin back into its proper place before their grandfather realized they had taken it.

“Drake, using your perfect pitch powers is cheating,” Damian growled, his whole face coloring before he stalked away to his own room. Alfred was fine and he was tired.

Tim blinked.

“Cheating?”

“I think he is developing a crush on your voice, little brother,” Dick beamed, wrapping an arm around Tim’s neck and cooing. “What do you say, Bruce?”

Bruce shook his head, still smiling.

“Thank you for doing this, Tim,” he said, ruffling the boy’s hair. “Now, go to bed you two, tomorrow we’ll serve the old guy breakfast in bed, he will fuss and love it.”

Dick cackled, dragging Tim away.

Bruce shook his head, thinking that, despite their bouts of manic depression, their downfalls, their histrionic disorders and sociopathic tendencies, he and Alfred had done well with those boys… deep inside. 


	3. Un Femme avec un Femme

The first one to notice this change in their accustomed routine, funnily enough, is Jason. Not because he lives there or anything, nah. He’s just so used to keep track of everything around him that the change of pace, though diminutive, is glaringly clear to him.

And he will never admit it, of course, but it amuses him to be the only one aware, him, the one that never spends time around – and it might sadden him a little, this obvious proof of the absent-minded neglect still so alive in the Manor, but who is he to act, really?  - which is the reason why he decides to test his theory.

He can be subtle if he wants to, of course, Alfred can attest to that.

He starts by dumping each and every single sweet treat inside the house down the toilet and then quietly disposing of all the sugar and flour in the cupboards, whistling a happy tune as he watches Bruce’s frown deepen and Dick’s anxious movements turn to twitching.

Alfred is out of town on holidays.

There is no sugar in the house.

The rest of the family is too inept to figure out what to do on their own.

He grins.

Dick grabs Damian and drags him on a little adventure to the supermarket, beaming everytime the boy protests.

Bruce stares mournfully at the abandoned baking sheets inside the oven but says nothing, too afraid of tarnishing his reputation.

Baby Bird just rolls his eyes behind his newspaper, glasses perched precariously over his nose, and stirs half a teaspoon of honey into his tea.

Jason smirks at him the moment Bruce huffs and leaves for the cave and the two teen’s eyes meet.

“I know you are planning something,” Tim says simply, reading.

“So?” Jason asks, fingering the tiny bear-shaped bottle the other teen produced from his pocket once Dick and Damian were gone. “You gonna stop me?”

Tim tilts his head, his fingers reaching to push up his glasses.

“I would if I knew what exactly is it that you want,” he replies finally. “However I don’t see it yet.”

Jason laughs.

Despite his so-called prodigious brain, Baby Bird is still particularly oblivious.

It’s kinda cute.

“If I swore it won’t hurt anyone, would you stop me?” he asks, hands reaching for a cigarette and his grin widening when Tim shakes his head and opens the window, not bothering to protest about the smoke.

“Are you taking your meds?” he asks, passing a page.

“Yup,” Jason replies.

“Will you keep up your meds if I promise not to stop you?”

“You wound me, Baby Bird.”

Silence falls upon them, only interrupted by the chirping of birds making their morning rounds outside and Bruce’s annoyed footsteps from the study.

Tim continues to read the paper, chin resting on his folded knees, left hand caressing the rim of his teacup.

Jason smokes his cigarette, legs dangling as he sits on the kitchen counter by the window, eyes closed as he enjoys the sun on his shoulders and hair.

A sigh.

“You have three weeks before Alfred comes back,” Tim finally whispers, grabbing a pen from his ear and folding the paper to start the daily crossword, lips curving. “Think you can get it done by then?”

Jason’s smile grows wicked.

“Definitely,” he says. “Oh, and Baby Bird?”

“Huh?” Tim asks, looking at him.

Jason lands a finger onto the paper, his fingernail scratching it’s surface into a straight horizontal line.

“Realism,” he corrects. “Number 3 is Realism.”

Tim’s smile grows tender.

Jason feels… accomplished.

He guesses he can get used to this Big Brother business after all.

The peace and quiet of that particular morning will be interrupted an hour later by Damian’s offended complaints as Dick forces him to carry bag after bag of groceries – store-bought cakes, pastries, cookies and candies, really – into the kitchen, arguing that it is a waste of time for them to buy that junk if they only needed sugar and flour.

“It’s half the fun, Dami!” Dick protests back. “Plus who’s gonna bake for us? Bruce?”

Damian scowls, dumping a teaspoon of their newly purchased sugar into his coffee and sipping it gratefully, eyes closed in an attempt to ignore how Dick is still babbling as he dunks at least four tablespoons of the sweetener into his cornflakes, his grin infectious.

Jason and Tim share a look.

Both shake their head in unison.

——

The second part of his plan is a little more subtle, refined in its genius if he can say so himself.

It’s only changing every single radio in the house from their usual punk and rock to more mellow melodies, making sure music is always inside the house in soft, feminine tones and dulcets that Alfred prefers when he cooks.

It takes the family three days to grow used to them again.

And while biding his time for his plan to unfold before him should have been the best part, he is not the most patient of men – at any given time – so he decides he has to rush it, if only to make sure his intelligence surpasses Bruce because, come on!

So, after dinner, he grabs one of the muffins Dick bought and bites into it with relish, only to spit it out and scowl at the older man.

The whole family stops to stare at him.

“Dick, these things taste like crap,” he complains, dumping all three remaining muffins into the trash and washing his mouth with a glass of water.

“It is what I said,” Damian nods, his usual scowl darkening. “Father, however, did not listen to me.”

“They don’t!” Dick pouts at them. “I ate them all the time while I lived on my own.”

“No wonder,” Damian rolls his eyes, rummaging through the cupboards. “Admit it, Grayson, all these junk you bought is disgusting. You are the only one even eating it.”

“Tim does too!” Dick whines.

Three pairs of blue eyes lock onto the younger teen calmly preparing coffee for himself and their father.

He blinks.

“Um, not really?” he admits. “I like Alfred’s cooking better.”

Bruce nods in agreement as he receives a cup of coffee from Tim.

“But nothing we can buy tastes like Alfie’s!” Dick argues, crossing his arms over his chest. “Until he comes back we are screwed!”

“That’s because he freezes the dough for an hour before baking and replaces sour cream and milk with emulsed coffee cream,” Tim replies absently, stirring his own cup.

This time it is four pairs of hungry blue eyes that land on him.

He blinks, pales, and then gulps.

“I shouldn’t have said that, didn’t I?” he whispers, his shoulders slumping.

“You are so screwed, Baby Bird,” Jason nods.

Tim sighs.

“I’m not going to bake a cake,” he states simply, wipping his mouth with his napkin in defeat.

“Okay,” Dick beams.

“And if I hear one complaint from any of you, I’ll stop and you’ll be stuck with Dick’s monstrocities,” he continues, fingers caressing his forehead in hopes of warding off the headache he can already feel coming.

“Deal,” Jason nods,

“Finally, one of you has to clean up while I cook, or the deal is off,” Tim narrows his eyes. “I refuse to cook AND clean while you all slack off, I still have a lot of work to do.”

“Whoever helps you clean gets to choose?” Damian asks, eyes wide.

Tim glares at Bruce.

Bruce stares back, the perfect picture of oblivious innocence.

Tim growls.

“Fine,” he agrees, swallowing the rest of his coffee. “I’m going to patrol now, you cake addicts don’t follow me.”

He leaves before anyone can argue and, surely, no one will now that they have realized they have another human being that knows how to cook the way their dear Alfred does – or at least is willing to attempt it – and is going to do it for them.

Smart, the Wayne household.

——-

The first morning of their new agreement none dare to make a comment.

Tim is angry if his red and blue Superman-themed cupcakes are any indication – but he’s angry at Bruce, so it’s not really their problem – and the cake is moist and soft, spongy, and all three dozen disappear well before patrol time at night, so… yeah.

Jason knows his plan is finally starting to bear fruit when he spots Dick scolding Damian over the boy’s use of his personal-care products.

“My hands are hurt!” Damian replies, growling.

“Wear gloves!” Dick pouts.

“Pennyworth’s are too big,” the child hisses, as if the length of Alfred’s fingers is a personal affront to him.

Tim ignores them both and continues to type on the computer.

Jason feels like cackling in glee.

Bruce eyes him, but remains silent.

The second day is scones and no, no one wants to comment either because they are warm and the butter is melting and sure, they are Tim’s favorite and the rest of the family usually steers away from them, but there are more pressing matters when Lucius is forced to come into the Manor holding a small plastic bag for Damian and Bruce hides from the older man’s glare in his study with a smile.

Jason simply smokes, popping another scone into his mouth and shrugging when Dick looks at him in askance.

Bruce finally corners him as the sun rises at the end of the week, eyes narrowed and hands heavy on his shoulders.

“What did you do?” he asks – really states, because it’s Bruce’s way – unwilling to let the matter continue any longer.

“Nothing,” Jason shrugs, trying to play innocent and knowing he is failing.

“Jason,” Bruce growls and the teen feels like he’s ten again and Bruce’s ancient silverware is hiding in his pockets like the very first few nights he stayed at the Manor.

Damn old habits.

“It’s Alfred’s birthday present, okay?” he relents, cheeks coloring, crossing his arms over his chest. “I wanted to make sure he got something special.”

“By making Tim start baking in his stead?” Bruce asks, raising an eyebrow.

“That’s an added bonus,” Jason replies, tilting his head to make Bruce follow him into the kitchen, using their well-honed stealth skills to peer as silently as they can.

Tim, of course, is there, hair pulled back into a messy ponytail, glasses dusted in flour, hands deep into a delicate bowl full of dough.

Bruce blinks in confusion and Jason presses a finger to his own lips to keep him quiet.

The radio is playing an old European song that none of them recognize but Tim’s feet are beating against the tiled floor and his hips move gently in beat, a small smile on his face.

“Je n’aurais pas l’audace de tousser, si Ca me dérange, je n’ai qu’a m’en aller.Avec mes pierres ellles construiraient leur forteresse,” he sings softly, a smile pulling his lips upwards gently. “Qui arête les colombes en plein vol, a deux, au ras du sol, une femme avec une femme.”

“What?” Bruce whispers, only to be stopped by Jason’s superior smirk and the soft padding of bare feet that cautiously approach the kitchen.

“Dough, Drake?” Damian asks, hands rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he instantly starts collecting dirty cups and spoons and even the blades from the blender, carefully preparing the sink to wash them.

A pair of custom-made yellow rubber gloves covering his hands.

“Cinnamon cookies,” Tim replies, eyes closing as he enjoys the music. “Bruce likes them.”

“Hm,” Damian nods, deepening his hands in the soapy water to start his half of the task. “And the French?”

“It was on the radio,” Tim shrugs.

“Okay,” the younger boy shrugs back, back turned to his older ‘brother’.

Tim sighs, pulling the dough from the bowl – and Damian instantly takes it from him to wash – and kneading it softly.

“L’une des deux dit que c’est mal agir, et l’autre dit qu’il vaut mieux laisser dire,” Tim continues to sing, ignoring the other child at his side. “Ce qu’ils en pensent ou disent ne purrait rien y faire.”

Jason let’s his fingers point towards Damian’s face, and the obvious way his eyes light in appreciation, his cheeks flush pleasurably and his whole body language seems to gravitate towards the singing teenager, head rocking back and forth with the melody.

Bruce gapes.

“You made them stop fighting,” he whispers to his second son.

Jason shrugs.

“It was bound to happen eventually,” he confides. “I just hurried it up for Alfie’s birthday.”

Bruce nods.

“Qui arête les colombes en plein vol, a deux au ras du sol, une femme avec une femme.”

“You never sing in English.”

“I do, sometimes, but other languages are more musical to me.”

“Hmmm.”

Both, Bruce and Jason, spend the first hours of dawn watching the younger boys work and Jason will not comment how Bruce’s hand, still on his shoulder, seem to relax into a grateful caress.

It was all for Alfred, after all.

 


End file.
